


tired eyes (maybe you've seen too much)

by a_stankova



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, eve comforts her, fuck the astankova family in advance, lots of kisses, very plot-thin, villanelle is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23987305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_stankova/pseuds/a_stankova
Summary: Villanelle fucks up, and goes to the one place she feels safe.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 28
Kudos: 539





	tired eyes (maybe you've seen too much)

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between 3x06 and 3x08 so is only loosely canon-compliant at this time.

Villanelle has fucked up, professionally, for perhaps the first time in her career.

The crime scene photos cross Eve’s desk all too late – by that point, several days have passed, and the damage is well and truly done. It’s a messy kill, truly gruesome. She thumbs through each photograph, cannot ignore the gaping chasm that opens in her chest as she sees Villanelle, clear as day and in full view of a CCTV camera, hacking a man to death with a butcher’s knife.

And she looks … even with the grainy quality of the shot captured by the CCTV, Eve can tell she is unfocused. Manic. She _attacks_ him, none too artfully, and when she finally lets up, the camera catches her looking at the knife in her hand, her eyebrows narrowed in confusion, as if she hadn’t even realised what she’d just done.

There is no disguise. No mind paid to blind spots. Eve’s stomach sinks.

_Shit._

Konstantin is calling her immediately, and no sooner has she brought the phone to her ear than he is shouting down the line to her, telling her to shut the file, to bring it straight to him. He tells her that the Twelve have reached out to him, are _furious_ that their star employee could have been so reckless, so sloppy. Eve is inclined to agree – how the fuck could Villanelle be so stupid?

He tells her to go home, and he meets her that evening, looking haggard and frustrated. He takes the file from her, but it’s too late, she can see it in his eyes and she knows it within herself, too. There’s no way this would disappear this time, not with evidence this infallible. Before, Konstantin could have beseeched the Twelve, have them make the whole thing disappear in order to keep their favourite assassin working comfortably.

They couldn’t give a _fuck_ now. As far as they are concerned, she has become a liability. 

The idea turns Eve’s stomach to lead. She lets him take the file and he warns her that this is dangerous, in a way it hasn’t been before.

“She is not doing well,” he tells her, painfully vague. “Since Russia. She is not doing well.”

It’s all he says. Eve contemplates his words until sleep takes her.

At 2am, the latch on her door clicks, and the floorboards creak. Eve freezes for all of a second before she is bolting up in her bed, hand reaching out absentmindedly for the empty wine bottle on her bedside cabinet, a feeble means of defence but a means nonetheless.

Villanelle stands there, arms wrapped around herself. Her hair is slicked back with the rain, and she shivers. She looks…

Small. She looks really, really small.

“It’s 2am,” Eve manages to say, startled by how disconcerting she looks.

“Can’t go home,” Villanelle murmurs, her words slurring together as her jaw chitters. “Looking for me.”

It knocks Eve for six. She watches Villanelle just stand there, as if she’s afraid to move, and Eve wonders if she’s waiting for something. Waiting for permission, or to be told to leave.

Eve stands from the bed, half-compelled to kick her out the door, for Rome and for the bus and for being stupid enough to be caught committing murder on camera. She doesn’t though; instead, she reaches out, and strips her of her soaking wet jacket.

Villanelle sighs out into the space between them. She looks exhausted, Eve notes. She carefully drapes Villanelle’s jacket over a kitchen chair and places gentle hands on her cold forearms, turning her in the direction of the bathroom.

Shower steam fills the room quickly. Eve’s hands shake as she undresses Villanelle down to her underwear, blood rushing to her ears with every inch of skin that’s revealed. She expects Villanelle to be smug about it, to proffer her chest for Eve’s attention, to make everything Eve says a sexual innuendo.

She says nothing. Not a fucking word. Just stands there, motionless, moving only to help Eve take her clothes off. The silence is more stifling than the heat.

Eve helps her into the shower. It’s a small space, not nearly big enough for two people, so Eve steps out once Villanelle is settled, lingering awkwardly, unsure. Villanelle gives her no hint as to whether or not she should stay; simply turns her back to Eve to face the wall, reaching to unclip her bra.

Eve swallows as it slips down her arms and off, but any sense of eroticism is quickly extinguished; like this, Eve can see Villanelle’s back, and the sight rocks her. Her skin is marred, purple and red and black in some places; in places, the flesh is gashed, vibrant pinks fading into mottled brown where healing has begun; on her shoulders, Eve sees imprints, determined and finger-shaped, like they’d been trying to hold her down.

Eve’s breath hitches, and she turns on her heel, needing to get out. Her eyes swim with the trauma she’s just witnessed, and her stomach churns, anxiety and anger melding into one, making her fists clench.

Eve has another glass of wine, and slumps back into bed, resting against the headboard as she waits for the sound of the water to shut off. It does so about fifteen minutes later, and when Villanelle emerges from the bathroom, she is wrapped in a towel, hair hanging down around her face. She is still, again, waits to be told what to do next. 

Eve’s heart aches. “What happened?” she asks her quietly, voice barely above a whisper as it settles inside her that she’s terrified to know the answer.

Villanelle says nothing. Does not look at her. She picks a spot on the carpet, and presses her toes down in place. 

Eve tries again. “What happened in Russia?”

Villanelle’s head snaps up. Eve expects her to be angry. But her eyes – focused, chilling, inaccessible – are blank, all hints of her mischievous signature glint snuffed out. Memories linger there, dark and vivid, and Eve spends long moments lost inside them, searching for answers.

But Villanelle will not give her any. Eve wants to ask her again – is desperate to ask her – but she does not. She predicts, deep down, that Villanelle would kill her if she does.

Eve changes tact. “You fucked up,” she whispers, leaning forward in the bed, hands clenched in the sheets. She is not accusing her, she is not even angry with her – she’s just painfully, unbelievably scared. “You’re in so much danger.”

Villanelle falters at that – her mouth parts as the lines around her eyes soften, and with the press of tears behind Eve’s eyes, she knows that Villanelle is seeing, for perhaps the first time, that Eve cares about her.

And Eve does. More than she should.

But the more she observes, the more she doubts that Villanelle would kill her anymore, and soon the image she has of Villanelle choking the life from her is replaced by blinding sobs and hands clenched around her waist.

Eve will not be the cause.

Villanelle takes her newfound revelation as an invitation, like Eve had expected she would. She shuffles down the bed as Villanelle steps towards her; her eyes are tired but her face is storming, and when she slides into Eve’s lap, she is trembling.

Eve allows the hands that tilt her jaw upwards, allows the tongue that presses against her own. She encircles Villanelle’s waist with her arms, careful of her back, and when she plants her feet firmly on the ground, it causes Villanelle to roll closer, and her kiss to become deeper. Eve moans into her mouth, enamoured by the hands that cup her jaw, tender and patient, quite unlike like the hands of a killer.

Eve’s hand steals down between their bodies, slips under Villanelle’s towel – Eve gasps as her fingers slide home; slide down, up, over, searching for that place she’d only ever found within herself before. She knows she’s found it when Villanelle mewls against her neck, soft and pleading. 

A hand tangles in her hair as Eve’s fingertips press and circle, growing bolder, until Villanelle’s hips are rolling, tilting into Eve’s touch. “Please,” Villanelle breathes out against her throat, a keening cry tumbling from her mouth as two fingers slip inside her. “ _Eve_.”

Eve holds her hip, guides her down, up, back, forth, presses kisses to her collarbones and stares in awe, utterly overwhelmed by the flurry of emotions racing over Villanelle’s face. She’s getting close – Eve can tell as the snap of her hips grows harder, more determined; with this thought in mind, Eve curls her fingers, presses her thumb where it’s needed and kisses Villanelle, momentarily stunned by the tears in her eyes.

Eve does not ask. Just kisses her, and watches her body transform.

When Villanelle comes, her face is honest, and her jaw drops, ripe for confession. She whimpers as her hips slow over Eve’s hand, and Eve thinks briefly that she would tell her anything she wanted to know in this moment, as she clenches and settles.

But Eve doesn’t ask, simply captures the breath as it shakes between her teeth and lets Villanelle sink back down to earth, safe in her arms.

They lie together in silence afterwards, Villanelle’s head resting over Eve’s heart, her hair fanned out along her chest. Eve takes slow breaths, allowing Villanelle to match the rhythm of her ribcage as it falls and rises. She glances at the clock on the wall – it’s almost 3:30am.

She ought to sleep. She has work at 9am. 

But then, out of nowhere, Villanelle is whispering into the dark.

“Eve?”

“Mm?”

“I meant what I said. In Rome.”

Eve stills. 

Villanelle continues, strokes her fingers along Eve’s breast as she holds her close. “I know you don’t believe that. And I know why. But I...it is true. For me. I just wanted you to know that.”

Eve says nothing, tears stinging in her eyes as her mind runs wild. With a sigh, she slips onto her side, presses her face to Villanelle’s shoulder in this new position to hide the conflict that no doubt mars her face. 

Villanelle is dejected, Eve can tell with the shaky deflation in her chest. She breathes in the scent of Eve, her nose buried in her hair, her hands splayed on her warm, naked skin. “You changed everything,” Villanelle whispers, after several long moments of quiet. “Changed me. I don’t think you’ll ever really know how much.”

And Eve can’t take much more. She leans her head up to kiss Villanelle, ignores the taste of salt on her lips, ignores the wetness of her cheek when she reaches up with one hand to cup her there. She kisses her hard and with purpose, to stop her talking but also to ease her mind, for it’s clearly dragging her into painful territory. 

It’s as much for Eve, too. her own mind is ablaze, and it hurts to be this vulnerable. It’s not something she thinks she’s ready for yet. Villanelle whines softly into her mouth, but gives as good as she gets, and when they part, their mouths brush, and the air between them belongs to them both, unified in its exchange. 

Their eyes lock, and Eve is struck. Villanelle is weeping, her face pink with the struggle of holding herself together. She holds tight to eve’s waist and neck, as if anchoring herself to the bed, and she stares hard, desperate to convey what she means without having to say it because fuck knows she’s never known the meaning of the words before now. 

Eve does all she can think of to do, and kisses her with every ounce of her being. Kisses her like nothing else sustains her. Kisses her like it’s all that’ll ever be enough. 

And maybe it is. 

She kisses and she moves, deliberately and swiftly on top of Villanelle, knees sinking into the bed on either side of her hips. Still she kisses, deeper now with this newfound dominance; she tangles her fingers in Villanelle’s hair and clasps her firmly, just strong enough to remind Villanelle that she’s real, that they both are. Villanelle’s own hands travel up Eve’s back — when one palm slides across a familiar shoulder scar, Eve sighs into her mouth, and kisses her again. 

Against her, Villanelle’s breath hitches wetly, and Eve can feel fresh tears as they pool at the back of Villanelle’s throat, pressing at her tongue. Eve’s own tongue seeks to fight them off, curling into the cavern of her mouth to keep her together, and it seems to work; the next time they break for air, Villanelle’s breathing is succinct, normalising with every bump of Eve’s nose against her own. Eve is relieved, but doesn’t tell her; instead, she leaves soft kisses across her rapidly drying cheeks, nuzzles and nips at her chin and her jawline until finally, _finally_ , Villanelle’s hands are on her neck, and they aren’t shaking anymore. 

She lets Villanelle direct their foreheads together, blood rushing to her ears as she exhales below her, forcefully enough to almost knock Eve onto her back. Her eyes are closed, Eve notes. She runs a soothing thumb over one eyelid, letting it pass over her cheekbone, down to her bottom lip. When villanelle’s eyes open, they are bright, almost enlightened. She captures Eve’s thumb in a soft kiss, never taking her eyes from hers. They seem to be communicating something, or a million things. Eve thinks, as she gazes right back at her, that Villanelle is grateful, as much as she is in love. The idea makes Eve’s chest constrict, so deliciously it’s painful. 

The pain dissolves with a kiss, momentarily. It probably always will.

Eve dresses for work the next morning. She pulls her button-down shirt around her shoulders – the same one she’d worn on the bus that day – and fastens it up with nimble fingers. The smell of Villanelle is faint on them now, and she tastes stronger on the underside of Eve’s tongue.

Eve doesn’t mind it.

“I have to go,” she murmurs to Villanelle, who lies still wrapped in the bedsheets. Her hair is piled on top of her head now in a messy golden bun, and her lips are swollen, glossy and bruised with the memory of Eve. “Stay here.”

Villanelle says nothing. As Eve is reaching for her pants, she looks over her shoulder, finds Villanelle’s eyes as they stare after her, her face impossibly soft.

It makes Eve feel naked, and more powerful than she ever has before. It compels her, wordlessly, to climb back onto the bed, her hands reaching for Villanelle’s cheeks as if on auto-pilot.

The kiss is firm, a promise. Villanelle will be safe here, while Eve figures out what comes next. Eve might be leaving now, but she’s coming back. She’s always coming back.

Their mouths part gently, and Villanelle’s eyes flutter open once more as she leans into Eve’s touch, her bottom lip brushing against her palm.

“Sleep some more,” Eve tells her, her thumb sinking into Villanelle’s lip. “You’re exhausted.”

Villanelle nods once, kisses Eve’s fingers as they retract. Eve wishes she’d argue the point, or make a joke, but she doesn’t push her. She’ll tell her when she’s ready, and they’ll figure it out together.

Eve gathers her bag and her keys, and when she is heading for the door, Villanelle calls to her across the tiny apartment:

“I’ll think about you all day.”

She does not miss the way that Villanelle’s eyes glitter, sparking with something familiar, something she had lost. Eve smiles, her veins roaring to life inside her as the impact of that statement washes over her, leaves her feeling like she could conquer the world. 

“I’ll think about you, too,” she tells her as she leaves, and it’s as easy a confession as breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @a_stankova on Twitter – come say hi, and enjoy 3x04 when it airs! :)


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